


Nothing But Black

by righteousgonewrong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/righteousgonewrong/pseuds/righteousgonewrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically this is a fanfic based on what would happen- or at least, what <i>could</i> happen- if Sam were to die in current canon. From Dean's POV.</p><p>Don't read this if you don't like major character deaths. Or somewhat graphic violence. Or having a heart that isn't shredded into tiny pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing But Black

Mourning Sam was never easy. But it had never been this hard before.

The first day was the worst. Dean refused to leave Sam's side, refusing to accept hat he was really gone this time, not willing to accept that no amount of deals or angelic possessions would bring him back. He desperately clung to the delusion that Sam wasn't gone, that this was just another temporary slumber he would soon wake up from.

He sat on the bed by his brother's side, waiting for those shining hazel eyes to open. Waiting for Sam to smile and tell Dean everything was okay in that wise tone that sometimes made Dean wonder which of them was truly the older brother.

But Sam didn't wake up. He just laid there, cold in a way his bright, warm little brother should never be.

He barely noticed Cas' presence. Though the angel never strayed from Sam's bedside, Dean's attention and gaze stayed solely focused on his brother. His little brother, the same little boy who he'd wrapped in his arms on cold, motel beds, stolen peanut butter and bread for, killed for. All grown up. And now, all gone.

Even now, his personal mantra of _'watch out for Sammy'_ rang through his head on repeat. _Watch out for Sammy. Watch out for Sammy. Sammy's gone. Sam. Gone. Sam is dead. Watch out for Sammy._ An incoherent stream of thoughts that ran through his head as he dressed his brother, his Sammy, for his funeral. He brushed aside a long strand of hair, wishing Sam could wake up to so he could make another stupid Rapunzel joke that Sam would roll his eyes at while Dean laughed, and leaned down to press his lips against a forehead that was as cold and empty as his heart.

Then he lit the match.

Standing over his brother--his baby brother's _corpse_ \--as it burned away, taking away the last piece of Sam that was left was what broke him. Tears spilled over like a dam bursting and Dean had to stop himself from reaching out and yanking Sam out of the fire like he always did. Because it didn't matter this time. Sam was already gone.

Dean didn't know how long it took for the fire to burn out, for the body that once was Sam to vanish and leave only a burning pile of ashes. He had no idea how long he and Cas had stood, transfixed in agony as Sam burned away. He only knew that he had somehow ended up on his knees close enough to the pyre that his face was as red as his tear-stained eyes, his skin as raw as his throat after hours of wailing in despair.

When it was done, he left. Not a word or a glance was spared for the angel who'd once raised him from Hell, who he'd once called a brother. What was the point in speaking now that Sam was gone?

The first person he spoke to was Crowley. He hunted the King of Hell down himself, tearing through anyone that stood in his way with a savage coldness that Sam would have hated. But it got him what he wanted: an audience with the King.

"I can't bring your brother back, Dean."

Dean shook his head. He knew that. Crowley couldn't help him, no one could. Sam was gone, he knew that. That wasn't what he wanted.

"Give me the Blade."

His voice was still raw, a gruff demand.

"You do know what you're asking for, don't you?" the other demon asked, brow raised in such a condescending way that Dean almost tore his eyeballs from his skull right then and there. "You would be a full fledged demon again. A monster."

Dean would have laughed, if he remembered how. What did it matter whether or not he was a monster? What was the point in being the hero when the one person he wanted to protect was gone?

"I don't care," Dean said, his voice both desperate and utterly empty. "I want it."

That was all it took. The First Blade was back in his hand within minutes, and he was all too quick to use it.

He was like a machine, mindlessly slashing his Blade in whichever direction Crowley pointed him in. The Blade did what no drug or alcohol could: it made him forget. Even if only for a moment, when the toothed knife ripped through a demon's heart and blood spilled over the Knight of Hell and his weapon, the high drowned out the constant stream of _Sam's dead. Sammy's gone. Sam. Dead. Gone. SamisdeadSamisdeadSammyis **dead**_ that ran through his head whenever he stopped to think. 

So he didn't stop. He shut down, thinking of nothing but his kills. Living on the idea that if he just kept moving without stopping, maybe the pain would just never catch up with him.

It worked.

When he tired of killing for Crowley, he turned his Blade on the King himself. Stabbing the monarch in the back both literally and figuratively, feeling nothing but the sweet high of the Mark as the well-dressed corpse dropped to the ground.

"I'm your King now," he announced to the nearby crowd of demons, his voice ringing empty as though reading from a script.

No one questioned him. No one dared.

No one until _him._

He barely recognized the angel when they met. How ironic that this would be the location of their reuinion, that the angel who had once strolled into Hell to save him now returned to the same place to kill him.

How ironic that this time it was the angel, not the human, who was a broken mess. A question drifted into the ever constant stream of subconscious thoughts: _is that what I look like?_

It didn't matter. Within minutes, the angel was felled. And as he dropped, a single word escaped from parted lips: "Sam."

Dean snapped. He lunged forward, tearing into the already dead Castiel like a savage animal tearing into its prey. Castiel wasn't the first one to use _that name_ in Dean's presence, and he wasn't the first one to face the consequences for it.

But this was different than the other times. This time he couldn't close his eyes and let the Mark's calm consume him. With a single word, Castiel had broken the gates that kept all the things he was trying to ignore hidden. The floodgates had been ripped open and Dean couldn't stop, ripping Castiel's body to ribbons until all that was left was a pile of blood and broken bones mixed with tears he couldn't remember crying.

When he ran out of things to kill, Dean turned to torturing souls in Hell. Ripping them apart with a ferocity that frightened even his demon subjects. Soul after soul, reduced to pieces as small as dust. Just like Sam. 

No creature dared to speak to him, to even approach him. The only voices that filled his ears were the sweet, numbing screams of his victims. He didn't pay attention to them, only continued his work with a cold viciousness.

Until for the second time, one of his victims spoke. Instead of screams and pleas for mercy he was met with a single familiar word: "Dean."

He froze. No one called him Dean, not anymore. They called him the Knight, the demon, the King. A faceless, nameless entity of destruction. There was only one person who could look at the monster he'd become and still see any small glimpse of Dean Winchester.

"Sam?" he asked, his voice faltering. It couldn't be. Sam wouldn't be here. Sam couldn't be here. Not him. Not Sam.

"Dean."

There was no mistaking that voice. No mistaking the way it curled around his name like a warm embrace, cutting straight through the demon's walls and into the very core of his heart.

"Sam," he answered, walls shattering around the hole that one word had pierced in his heart. "No, it can't... not you..."

"Dean," the bloody shape beneath him said again, his voice soft and quiet. Such a relief from the scathing screams that usually tore through his ears. "It's okay, Dean. It's okay."

That was it. The final push, a gentle tap against his crumbling walls. Tears he thought he'd forgotten how to form spilled out, mixing for the second time with the warm, red blood of someone he loved. But rather than anger, this time there was a strange sense of finality.

_It's okay._

Those words he had so desperately wished Sam would wake up and say. It was as though those words somehow marked the ending of everything, of all his suffering, of the rivers of blood he'd carved out all to mask the pain of losing the little boy now crying in front of him. 

_Let me go._

It was what he wanted. What they both wanted. They wanted a way to escape the pain. It was the least he could do, to give Sam his final wish.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

And with that last exchange, Dean brought the First Blade down into his brother's heart. Killing all that remained of both brothers with one quick stab. His final act of love for his brother, to let him go. To stop the pain once and for all.

All that was left was to turn the Blade on himself. Cut the final strings that tied his soul and his body to this world. Finally closing the curtains on all of their pain and suffering.

Leaving nothing but black.


End file.
